Tag Archives: Louisa

If you are a mother then you know about the guilt. The guilt that accompanies every decision you make, every action you take (every cake you bake), every time you lose your patience, every time your child cries – you know what I mean. If you’re a dad? You don’t feel the guilt. You assume you’re doing an okay job, which is probably true, and you see no reason to feel bad about shit. And you probably don’t understand it either. My husband has no idea WHY I feel guilty and keeps trying to convince me not to. If only moms could be LOGICAL, Spock Jason.

So yeah. Guilt. GUILT GUILT GUILT. That’s what I’m feeling this week. This day. This hour. I am simultaneously sleep training and weaning Simon. Could I be a bigger asshole? I know. Really I do. But it’s time. For both. I am weaning slowly, in case you were wondering, but still. Man. The little tyke. He is so mad about it. He has become so clingy that if I put him down for one second he flips out. If I finally convince him to sit on the floor next to me and play but then I walk away (like to PEE because EVEN MOMS HAVE TO DO THAT) he screams and follows me. But… I need to be back on my medication. The time has come. I (and my husband) have put up with my depression for three and a half years now because that is how long I have been either pregnant or breastfeeding. OMG you guys. That’s a long time to be breasting or nesting! At one point I was doing both at the same time! Lordy. So yeah. I want my body to be mine again. I want to chew on Wellbutrin like candy until I feel like my old self again.

With Louisa the weaning wasn’t so difficult. First of all, she has never been clingy (probably because of the ASD) and second, we just weaned her to a bottle and voila. Simon WILL NOT take a bottle. At all. Oh he’ll hold it. And play with it. And bite on the nipple. But he won’t drink from it. So that’s out. Plan B is to just slowly get rid of a feeding here and there until they dwindle down to nothing. After two and a half weeks he is only getting one before sleep at night and one in the middle of the night. Nothing during the day. And yeah. He is not happy. Periodically when sitting on my lap he will just dive-bomb/motorboat me. It’s fantastic. But it is slowly happening. I figure by the end of the weekend he’ll be completely off. And I will dance a jig. And then cry. Because whilst I am really looking forward to this whole no-baby thing, I am also very sad about it. No more babies. Ever.

The sleep training… has not been so gradual. But can it ever be? I know I’m a crazy person who sleeps with my babies (I’m not the only one, but still, we’re crazy people) but it makes the nighttime breastfeeding so much easier. About a month ago, though, it got to the point where he was waking more than sleeping and I sort of figured that it was because I was waking him up. Turns out I was right. I was dreaaaading doing this because with Louisa it was torrrrrture but it was seriously nothing. I shouldn’t be writing this on the internet because he is going to know that I told people and immediately start staying up all night but guys. The first night he fell asleep in 20 minutes, woke up once at like 1:30 for a feeding and then slept until 7 am. Two nights later he slept from 8:30 until 4:30, then went back down until about 5:45 and that’s been his MO ever since. Minimal screaming. Minimal drama. At night, that is. He is now refusing to nap because it takes him away from me and he can’t be away from me (see above re: super clingy baby). Basically I have to bounce/pat/cajole him to sleep on my shoulder and then wait until he’s way out to put him down. And still he’ll only stay out for 30 minutes. He used to be a solid napper. Two a day, at least 90 minutes a piece. I will trade the nighttime sleep for the naps, however. Because I get to sleep now! I mostly don’t though because I’m a dipwad who stays up way too late watching House of Cards with my husband and/or reading books and/or blogging but I could sleep if I wanted to (and probably should if the gigantic bags under my eyes are any indication) and that’s all that matters, right?

I finally sacked up and called. The lady was just about to call me (oops) and was super nice. Anyway – she’s in! I’m so relieved. And once again struck by how lucky we are to be in the right place at the right time. Sometimes these folks have a year or longer waiting list but because we called right now when they are just starting to fill up next year’s preschool class, Louisa gets to start this coming school year – at the end of August. So we only have to fill the gap for about six more months. Phew.

Yesterday I took Louisa to be evaluated at a special preschool for spectrum kids. I meant to write about it beforehand but have been living in a crazy house for a few days because of a sick Simon (I am only able to write this now by typing as q u i e t l y as possible because the planets have somehow aligned and both of my children are sleeping at the same time. Shhhh…). I have no idea where he caught this mysterious cold because we don’t really take the kids many places because it’s winter and nobody else in the house is sick. Yes, I know, knock wood because as soon as I say that the rest of us will be feverish and coughing. He either picked it up from the grocery store or from the early intervention lady. But she wasn’t sick when she was here and she didn’t sound sick when I canceled our Monday appointment because I had to take sick Simon to the doctor so that she could tell me it is just a cold (I figured as much but what if I was the mom who didn’t take her kid in only to find out that it was whooping cough or croup?). Just a cold. No big. Except that for sick babies you can’t really do much. By which I mean you can’t dose them with NyQuil and let them sleep for three days. Which is a pity, really, because SICK BABIES DO NOT SLEEP. And thus, neither do their mothers. He finally seems to be on the mend (aside from a horrible lingering cough, poor little dude) and actually slept last night which is good because I think one more sleepless night may have brought on some sort of psychosis on my part.

But anyway. The evaluation. The school. Such a wonderful place. We were there for about two and a half hours, most of which Louisa was in a classroom. Without me. I had thought that I would be scared shitless by that prospect but oddly I wasn’t. And neither was she. No stranger danger from that one. After I talked to the social worker for an hour I got to sit behind a two-way mirror and observe the classroom. Louisa fit right in. I think it was good for me to see other spectrum kids, because I haven’t seen many, and realize that she is not alone. We are not alone. And if anybody can help her, these people can. The teacher to kid ratio is 1:2 in every classroom. Everybody is trained in ABA therapy which is the gold standard for autism therapy. They work with the kids on speech therapy, sensory issues, developing social awareness, food/feeding problems (which Louisa doesn’t have), motor skills (again, not one of her problems), safety awareness (glory hallelujah! Louisa has absolutely NO safety awareness. So glad this issue will be addressed), toileting (meaning helping us parents out with potty training because spectrum kids are notoriously difficult to train), behavioral problems (i.e. the epic effing tantrums) and probably other things that I am forgetting. In other words, rather than us piecemealing a plan together by finding an occupational therapist and a speech therapist, somehow figuring out how to get her potty trained, hoping that we can figure how to teach her that running from us in a crowd or a parking lot is dangerous, and sending her to the Early Intervention preschool for 4 hours per week, hoping that any of it will make a difference, we send her to this place where she will get ALL OF THOSE THINGS, for 27 hours a week. Needless to say i am on pins and needles waiting to hear back from them in the next couple of days.

I am very hopeful that they will decide she is a good fit. She meets all 12 of the DSM diagnostic criteria for autism (not a surprise to me). She fit in well in the classroom and seemed to respond to the staff and their teaching efforts. Plus, they were all in love with her. Every single person we came in contact with gushed about how cute she is, how pretty her eyes are, how magical her golden ringlets are. I know looks aren’t everything, but they can’t hurt, right?

So I sort of just realized that I posted about an exciting interstate move, disappeared for five months (give or take) and then dropped the autism bomb. Sorry about that. Sometimes I’m a little too stream of consciousness, methinks. But here I am, updating you on everyone and everything else! So exciting! Not really. Mostly boring. But here goes anyway.

We moved. We’re here. In Utah. My homeland. The mothership. The mecca of the Mormons. And… we love it! And by we I actually mean we, not just me. I knew I would love it but I worried that Jason wouldn’t. But he does. It’s so beautiful. We live in a community called Cottonwood Heights which is just a stone’s throw from Big Cottonwood Canyon which means that the Wasatch mountains are basically in our backyard. Which is basically true for much of Utah because daaaaamn they huge, but still. It’s lovely. If ever we have the means and the wherewithal to buy a house I would like to find one in this same area. Also, his music scene is much more happenin’ here. He has managed to find and jam with more than one like-minded person so that’s good. He may have to put things on hold what with all the… stuff… happening lately but at least there are options available.

We were really looking forward to a snowy winter which so far… hasn’t really happened. I think the weather is weird all over this year, but it’s just odd for me. I grew up here, playing in feet of snow and then later driving in feet of snow and so far… not so much. We’ve had one lame ass storm and then one actual Utah snowstorm. Luckily the second one was on Christmas. I really wanted a white Christmas because I haven’t had one in ages. The last white Christmas I experienced was actually a nightmare. It was in Portland and Portland handles the snow like a 19-year-old co-ed at her first frat party holds her liquor, which is to say NOT VERY WELL. Me and my brother, who was my roommate at the time, were trapped in our apartment. We watched Saturday Night Fever on Christmas Eve. It is now a funny and fond memory but at the time was pretty lame. This year I wished and wished and Mother Nature delivered. Louisa had never seen snow before and was enchanted.

We had a great Christmas – the best I’ve had in years. It was so nice to be here with my folks. Plus, my kids are still young enough to not really get into the whole gimme gimme PRESENTS thing and are really happy to just see and open the brightly colored packages without really noticing what’s on the inside. So that was fun. I cooked a big ass dinner and my mom and stepdad came over. We played in the snow and ate too much food – a perfect day.

As for me, I have been working full time since we got here. You may remember that I was ready for a break from the SAHM gig? Yes. So I took one. And Jason got to spend some time with the kids. Lots of time with the kids. It was nice. We’re broke as a bad joke but that’s okay. It was worth it. By the time the Christmas period rolled around and my work started to disappear (as happens that time every year) I was ready to go back to full-time momming and he was ready to go back to work so he scooted down to the local temp agency and BAM got a job. Really. I was surprised how quickly it happened. And it’s a pretty good job too. The place kicks ass – great building with a great view, fridge stocked with free drinks, candy dispensers stocked with free candy (obviously), catered lunches every Wednesday, movie outings once a month… and on and on. Plus he is making more money than he was in Vegas so it’s a win win. We’re really hoping that they hire him for real.

I’ve also managed to hang out with friends. Twice! Once with my BFFs from junior high whom I hadn’t seen in 20 years. It was… surreal, honestly. But also great. I love seeing people from the past. We tried to do it again but it was during the holidays and then the craziness with Louisa so things got canceled but we’ll do it again. And then last weekend I went to breakfast with my cousin and that was awesome too. Once of the things I have missed out on being elsewhere for 13 years is my family. They are some good folks and I am glad to have them back in my life. Look at me, being all social!

And then there’s Simon. You know, Simon, my second kid? The one I sat in a hospital bed for two months for? (which, by the way, was a frickin’ YEAR ago!! how does time just keep flying by?!) Simon is 9 months old now. NINE. Which means he is both delightful and infuriating. Delightful because he’s so cute and cuddly and smiley. Infuriating because he refuses to eat anything other than breast milk and thus is on the lowish end of the percentile charts for height and weight. He will not eat, you guys. And yes, I remember that Louisa wouldn’t either and that she eventually did but at least she was fat and healthy! Geez! Also, his hematocrit is low so I have to force-feed him nasty vitamins which, as you can imagine, is fantastic. But he’s awesome otherwise. He was a little reluctant to sit up on his own but once he did, he decided to meet all of the other milestones immediately. For real. Two days later he was crawling, a week after that he was pulling to stand and within another couple of weeks he was cruising. Which means walking is imminent, Lord help us.

So you know when you were a little kid and the last week of school was the longest of all eternities and it would NEVER END? Or, even worse, the countdown to Christmas that went ONANDONANDONNNNNN, each day dragging and every morning waking up and realizing it still wasn’t here yet and how was that even possible? Yeah. That’s what’s going on around here right now with the whole we’re-moving-to-Utah-but-not-yet thing. I can’t even express how much I just want to be the hell out of here now that the cat is out of the bag. Each day is like a tiny little forever that I am forced to get through and I’m so tired and anxious that it’s just… well… I’m super glad my kids won’t remember these few weeks. It’s so HOT that we can’t really go outside and sometimes I’m just too tired to try to keep Louisa out of all of the things she wants to be into because I’m carrying Simon around because he is so tired that he’ll cry if I put him down but he’s not tired enough to sleep and OMG just watch Elmo for the love of all that is holy! So yeah. Lots of Elmo going on around here. And there is so much to do before we go, and so much to do after we get there, that I have worked myself into an anxious froth about it but at the same time I can’t really do anything about it yet because there is no time. My day begins at 6 am, I take care of two kids for 9 hours then bolt down dinner when my husband gets home at 5:20 so that I can start work at 5:30. I finish work at 9:30 or 10:00 and sure, I guess I could get something done then but are you kidding me? I’m a zombie by then. Sooo… tiredddd… must… sleeeeep. Oh wait. The baby is hungry. And awake. Sigh. And every Saturday for the past six weeks I have either been working or we have had people here (or BOTH for cripes) so by Sunday I can barely muster the strength to sit on the couch, you know? And this Saturday is no exception because it’s Louisa’s birthday so again, people will be here. Which, whatever. That’s cool. It’s her birthday (by the way, how the hell is she two years old? I could waste an entire other post about how fast THAT time went by) so of course I gotta make Elmo cupcakes and blow up a bunch of balloons because birthdays are special. And because despite the fact that I can see the deep end, that I’m about to go off, right over there (picture me pointing a shaking, exhausted finger), I love her cute little voice when she says “Elbmow” and I want to see her face when she opens all her little presents.

A couple of days ago I texted my husband “maybe when we get there you should just be a full-time dad for a while and I can work full time”. At the time I thought it was just a really good idea. We could all have breakfast together, people could work out, we could take the kids to the park or to do other fun things and then after lunch when the kids are napping I could start work. I could break for dinner and bedtime and then finish my shift. Brilliant! Perfect! We agreed to try it out while he looks for work and if it works out…cool. Yesterday while Louisa was sleeping I was begging Simon to go to sleep. As if reasoning with a three-month-old that “pleeeease… Mommy is soooo tired” is logical. Then I caught Louisa digging in the cat box again (with the scooper, people, not like with her hands but still, I know, so disgusting) and I could barely keep myself from losing my shit. She takes the thirty-second opportunities when I am up to my elbows in baby poop or baby spit-up or baby crying to do all the things that she knows we don’t want her to do. Two-year-olds! And then today while I was feeding Simon he pooped. So I went to change him. And he did his famous projectile-spit-up-all-over-the-bed trick. This kid. I don’t even know. Does he have a pyloric stenosis? Gastroesophageal reflux? The hell? Louisa spit up way more often than him but it was just a tiny amount at a time. This dude only spits up like every two weeks but when he does it’s as if he is rejecting everything he has eaten for 72 hours. So gross. As I was putting the sheets in the dryer, him crying in the background and Louisa whining for a cracker I realized – the text to my husband? A thinly-veiled cry for help. I pretty much can’t handle this anymore. The children have won and I am at my breaking point. I love these kids like nothing else but I need a king-sized break. We are leaving three weeks today. Hopefully I can make it that long.

I’m still mostly out of words (mostly because I still can’t write about the thing… you know, the thing! the bigggg huge thing! The exciting thing! ThethingthatIactuallywanttowriteabout! (party bonus side note: the spill-the-beans date may have been moved up to later this week (word) instead of next week)), I’m still incredibly anxious and I’m so bloody tired I’m not even sure what day it is anymore but I thought I’d drop by and say a few things. And by “say a few things” I mean post a bunch of pics. Here’s what me and the fam have been up to the past couple o’ weeks (note how many are of inside my apartment? yeah – it’s STILLTOOEFFINGHOT, VEGAS!!!). Some of them are instagrammed. Sorry about it. I ❤ Instagram. We bought iPads (that we absolutely cannot afford right now (they're on sale! let's use a credit card!) what is wrong with us?) merely so I could use instagram.

Deciding if she likes the pool this year (hint: we can’t get her out).

Pretty much the cutest baby ever.

Elmo! Always Elmo!

I like the padding pool better. NO DROWNING.

Me and my true love.

She’s way too big for this but she can climb into it. Climbing! The worst milestone!

She likes to put my slippers on and shuffle around the house. Hilarious.

❤ ❤ ❤

The fourth.

Cuteness overloaddddzzzz.

Guess what she’s watching? GUESS.

Daddy and his mini me.

Fat baby in a little chair.

Hope y’all are having lots of summer fun too. Tune in later this week (Thursday night? Friday morning?) for the big announcement. And follow me on Instagram! 😉

When I was pregnant with Louisa I took a childbirth class. Which was basically an L&D nurse doing a PowerPoint presentation during which she explained that epidurals were the most wonderful thing ever and people who gave birth without them were abnormal before she asked if anyone was planning on foregoing the epidural (I proudly raised my hand and she tried really hard to refrain from scoffing) and then when I had finished delivering Simon (my SECOND BABY WITHOUT AN EPIDURAL, NURSE JERKFACE) she did rounds with the nursing students and I wanted to karate kick her in the face but that is so way off topic, what I was writing about? Where am I? What happened? Oh right. Childbirth class. PowerPoint. One of the slides was this quote: “Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” I have since seen this quote shared, liked, thumbs upped, pinned etc and while I understand the sentiment behind it I have to disagree. Before you get all hot about how I hate my babies, I just mean that it doesn’t… quite cover it for me. Like, my heart – whoopee. Outside my body – whoopee. Who cares? A heart is just a body part. Sure it’s an essential body part but still, it can be repaired and/or replaced. Once I had Louisa I suddenly felt like part of my soul was running around outside of me, you know? Like, if something happened to her part of me would cease to exist. Sure, I’d still be alive but I wouldn’t be whole. And suddenly I’m wondering if this is all some kind of Harry Potter-induced ridiculousness? It sounded good in my head. But I am still slightly sleep-deprived so maybe I should refrain from blogging until Simon sleeps through the night. Anyhoo – I’m not saying my kids are Horcruxes or anything like that. The point is, now I have two children and thus the soul – it is even more vulnerable. And this is why I hate being away from my kids. And that was the point of all of this Voldemorty nonsense – I hate being away from my kids. I worry. I wonder what is happening with them. I freak out, basically. My two-month hospital stay? A fucking nightmare of worry, day in and day out, about what was going on with Louisa. I was on the phone with my husband once when he was outside with her and she fell down and cried and I totally lost my mind and scream-cried into a towel in the bathroom lest one of the nurses come in and try to be all comforting. It was a dark time.

On Monday I had to take Simon to the pediatrician for his two-month well visit. As I learned the hard way last month, taking two kids to the pediatrician when only one of them has an appointment is sort of a hassle (by which I mean a red, hot pain in the ass – for reals, Louisa screamed herself silly and she didn’t even have to get out of the stroller) and I knew it would be an even bigger pain in the ass this time because Simon was getting his first vaccinations (which, by the way, the person who gave them this time? Sucked. He has huge, hard welts on his tiny little thighs. That never happened to Louisa, but the nurse (or is she a medical assistant? CNA? janitor?) who used to work there doesn’t anymore and so Simon got Stabby McWelterstein for a nurse (medical assistant? court jester?)). So to avoid the dueling screamers I asked my mother-in-law to come and hang out with Louisa while I took Simon all by himself.

She wanted to take Louisa to the outlet mall down the street because they have a Carter’s outlet and she wanted to buy her shoes. I said yes. Then automatically started envisioning scenarios in which either A) My daughter runs from my mother-in-law (she runs from me and my husband all the time so it is not entirely out of the realm of possibility) and gets lost in a sea of people and LO! SHE IS MISSING! or B) She falls down/gets hit by a car in the parking lot/hits her head on something/etc/etc/INJURYANDDEATH. I know. I’m ridiculous. This is why I should be on medication for anxiety. But still. She also wanted to take Louisa swimming. SWIMMING. And… I said no. Which, Jason agreed with me later so I didn’t feel too bad and/or over-protectively crazy. I just don’t really want my daughter in the water when I’m not around. Especially since this thing has been making the rounds on Facebook for weeks now. Jason totally thinks it’s a scam but it’s things like this that send me into a fresh panic and make me want to keep my children locked up in the house for the rest of their lives. Logic – it’s what’s for dinner. (side note: it’s totally real as there are entries on both wikipedia AND WebMD so THERE, JASON!

My pediatrician has two offices. One of them, the one I took Simon to, is in the medical building next to the hospital I was in for two months. It’s in the same parking lot. My chest got all constricty when I passed it. Is it possible to have PTSD from such an experience? Or some lesser, not-as-hardcore psychological reaction that doesn’t sound like an insult to people who have fought in wars and have actual PTSD (sorry, Davey!)? Because really. I don’t think I’m over that whole experience yet.

So essentially, Monday was an exercise in semi-terror for me. I watched one child get stabbed while I worried that the other one was getting kidnapped and/or fatally injured and then I had a mild panic attack driving by a hospital. I sound like a nut. Which… if the shoe fits…

There is a full-blown Elmomania going on in my house, y’all, and I’m not sure it’s possible to describe the depths of my loathing for his screechy-voiced, red, furry ass. It’s a lot. A lot of loathing. I remember back in the late-90s when Barney was all the rage and my friends with kids were like OMFG I HATE BARNEY and I thought to myself WHY IN THE HELL DID YOU EVER INTRODUCE YOUR KID TO BARNEY THEN, DUMMY? And I promised that if I ever had kids (which was never going to happen because I did not want them, Sam I Am (stupid biological clock)) I would just never show them television, especially the kind with obnoxious characters that make you want to blow your brains out, and everything would be fine. Good plan. *pats self on back*

Sigh. Eat thine words, Anjeanette.

Louisa never really watched television until she was about 18 months old. We were wandering through Netflix and discovered that they had Sesame Street. I loved Sesame Street when I was a kid and therefore was all excited to show it to her. I’m sure you already know this, folks, but I was horrified to discover that Sesame Street ain’t what it used to be. In fact, I think Sesame Street and all things Muppet-related died right along with Jim Henson. Sorry, Jim-Henson’s-kid-who-took-over-when-he-died, you just ain’t cuttin’ it. Kermit and Ernie’s voices are all wrong, Guy Smiley and Captain Vegetable don’t even exist anymore, there are all these new, stupid muppets like Abby Cadabby and Baby Bear, and Elmo has his own segment that takes up 20 ENTIRE MINUTES OF THE SHOW. The hell, people?! That is a lot of third-person-talking time. And don’t even get me started on Mr. Noodle.

Obviously I was aware of Elmo, I mean, anybody who was sentient during the Christmas season of 1996 – the height of the Tickle Me Elmo craze – knows who he is. I did not, however, know that he was The Shit. Like, the boss, nay the GOD of Sesame Street. When did this happen? And why? The entire 20-minute end of the show is dedicated to his ass! And there is no shortage of him on the rest of the show either.

Plus, PLUS! The merchandising! DVDs, dolls, clothing, lunch boxes, sippy cups – good lord! I know about all of these things because my mother-in-law discovered the extent of the Elmo worship and proceeded to buy! all the things! Louisa has two (TWO!) talking Elmos, one called Many Kisses Elmo who makes a MWAH sound when you squeeze his hand and one who sings the alphabet in that hideous, high-pitched, ridiculous voice and even manages to squeeze in the third person talking because Elmo never says I or me, he always says Elmo and so the alphabet song ends with “Now ELMO knows his ABCs, next time won’t you sing with ELMOOOOOOO”. Um, THAT DOESN’T RHYME, ELMO. And he sings it super loud because there is no volume switch, of course. Also, no off switch (WTF? all the other toys have an off switch) which is why he is currently hiding deep in the closet and will probably eventually take a fun trip to the scarlet fever pile. Or, you know, Goodwill.

And then there’s his laugh. What is with the laugh, you guys? It’s creepy, amiright? I think they should make another Child’s Play sequel in which Chucky and Elmo team up.)

Call me, Hollywood. We’ll talk.

We are also the proud owners of three (THREE!) Elmo DVDs, all of which are wholly and utterly irritating. (Well, okay, I admit to liking a few of the segments on The Best of Elmo 2, like the singing bit with Jason Mraz or the part in the bit with Adam Sandler where the dragon says I KISSED ADAM SANDLER. But for the most part I want to gouge out my own eyes (and ears come to think of it) when it’s on.

And then there’s the potty chair. My mother-in-law already has the potty chair. At first I was under the impression that she had purchased it after Louisa starting worshipping at The Church of Elmo and was just waiting for the go ahead to bring it to us and was a little annoyed but have since discovered that no, it was used by Louisa’s cousin Jacob, grandkid #1, for potty training and since he is now just about to graduate from kindergarten and has thus been potty trained for ages we are more than welcome to take it! Yay! And it talks! IT TALKS, YOU GUYS. I’m not sure what it says (Elmo loves pooh!) but it talks. Despite the fact that I have been politely declining every time she brings it up I am pretty sure it will eventually end up at my house. I guess I can take cold comfort in the fact that Louisa will at least be shitting on him, right?

I have tried, LO HAVE I LABORED MANY A TIME, to get her to love Winnie the Pooh with the same fervor but alas, it is not meant to be. She likes him okay and will point to the TV and say “Pooh!” when he is on (which she also shouted repeatedly yesterday to indicate that she had indeed poohed (I guess maybe I should accept the Elmo potty after all.)) *heaves gigantic sigh* but she reserves her true cult fandom for Elmo, pointing and saying his name over and over and overandoverandover. That part is actually kind of cute because it sounds like elbow and thus makes me smile a little. But still. I sometimes envision myself strangling the furry little bastard until his tongue is hanging out and the life leaves his eyes. Like this:

He makes a pretty good babysitter, though. I know, judge away, but the only way I can get a shower every day is to turn on Elmo’s World (seriously, she won’t even sit through an entire episode of Sesame Street (which, I can’t blame her because it reallllly realllllllly sucks nowadays) so I have to skip to the Elmo part)) and be done before it is.

Sigh. All I can say is damn you, Kevin Clash. (side note: I foolishly thought (and maybe hoped a little) that Elmo would die a horrible death after that whole sex scandal Kevin was involved in but I think they just replaced him with some other puppeteer in possession of a horrible high-pitched voice)

I leave you with this, quite possibly THE most irritating thing Elmo has ever done. You’re welcome.

Yesterday was… one of those days. One of those days where when my head finally hit my pillow I was so glad it was over, so glad that when I woke up in the morning it would be a different day, one where I wasn’t a horrible mother, a bitchy wife and a bad employee.

It started out like all the other days – I coaxed Simon back to sleep at 6, got up around 6:20 to say goodbye to my husband, dicked around on Facebook until Louisa got up and then fed her breakfast. I wrestled myself into my workout clothes and the kids into the stroller and set off on our daily walk. I bathed Simon, plopped Louisa in front of Elmo and bathed myself. I fed Louisa lunch. All was well. All was normal. There were a few moments of silent screaming on my part when Louisa deliberately ran and hid from me or Simon was extra fussy, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Hey! Look at me! I’m really getting a grip on this whole two-kids thing.

Then I went to put Louisa down from her nap. Because I was pregnant when we were sleep training her I never extended the training to naps. Instead I would lay down with her on my bed and fall asleep too, thus ensuring a luxurious nap for myself as well (ahhh, those were the days – delicious delicious sleep). Now, however, it’s just a giant pain in the ass because I have to lay with her and try to coax her into sleep while Simon is in his little bassinet next to us. Sometimes I get her down before he wakes up, and sometimes not. Yesterday? Not. A resounding NOT. As I lay there with her he began to fuss. No problem. It happens. I grabbed him and proceeded to feed him with one hand while using the other arm to rub Louisa’s arm/head/back as per usual. Only… Simon was in a really bad mood. He wouldn’t eat because he wanted to scream. And scream. And scream. Thirty minutes later he finally stopped long enough for her to drop off to sleep and me to escape with Simon.

I dragged him into the living room with me thinking I’d have my usual small window of time to myself, whereupon I usually either nap or typitytype on this blog. Buuut, no. Simon was again screaming. And screaming. And screaming. Which meant I had to hightail it to Louisa’s bedroom and close the door so that he wouldn’t wake her up. Another 30 minutes and he finally dropped off again. And stayed there for roughly 30 minutes. And then started screaming. And woke Louisa up.

Sigh.

For the rest of the afternoon I chased around a willful toddler with a screaming baby in my arms. He would settle for a few minutes and then fuss/scream/fuss/fuss/screamsomemore. Louisa took my preoccupation with him as an opportunity to run around the house causing mayhem – getting into cupboards and throwing things on the floor, getting into drawers and throwing things on the floor (I’m sensing a pattern here), jumping on my bed, pulling the cats’ tails etc. ETC.

Finally I was sitting in my office chair with Simon on my shoulder patting his back. He was slowly calming down. I was beginning to feel relieved. And then I heard water splashing and I knew that Louisa was once again playing in the cats’ water dish. She stuffs her entire head in and proceeds to drink out of it. It’s disgusting. It was funny the first time but not so much after you’ve been telling her for months NO, DON’T, THAT’S NOT YOURS, STAY OUT etc. etc. et al. I usually put the dish up on the counter because I hate fighting with her about it and I know she isn’t going to listen. My husband’s philosophy is that she needs to learn not to play in it but I refuse to get into a battle of wills with a toddler especially when I am in charge of an infant all day who is, you know, sort of demanding what with not being able to do anything at all.

I don’t know what it was, the heat? the baby’s constant screaming? her being a turd all day?, but I lost my shit. I put the baby down, marched into the kitchen and started screaming. I grabbed her and forced her to look at me while I yelled things – who knows what things – stop it, I’m so sick of this, why are you such a little shit etc etc – honestly it’s like a car accident, I can’t really remember. But then I spanked her. Before you get all crazed and start hollering child abuse, don’t worry – I feel like an ASSHOLE. I am not a spanker. I never planned on spanking. I don’t think it’s a real behavioral deterrent and figured it wouldn’t be part of our arsenal of disciplinary tactics. Plus, it didn’t even phase her. She gave me her mischievous toddler face and ran off to her room to attack her toys.

It did, however, phase me. I shakily sat down on the couch to have a good cry and wonder what in the hell my problem was.

Jason came home. I told him what happened, he reassured me that I was not the world’s worst mother (maybe third or fourth worst). And then… something set Louisa off. I forget what it was but she threw tantrum after tantrum the rest of the night. She didn’t want to be in her high chair, she didn’t want to eat, she didn’t want to eat THAT, she didn’t want to get down, she didn’t want to blah blah BLAH. She would be fine for a second and then flip out. And Simon kept screaming and screaming. Of course, I was hearing all of this through my headphones while I tried to listen to dictations because I was working by this time. And crying yet again because I had gotten a bad QA report by someone who misunderstood my comments (I know that doesn’t make sense to most of you – it’s sort of like getting yelled at by your supervisor for something you didn’t actually do, only, it’s not in person so there’s no way to really rectify the situation other than to send emails to the parties involved or ping them on Skype and after sleeping on it (ALWAYS ALWAYS SLEEP ON IT) I decided it wasn’t worth it) and it made me feeeeel baaaaad.

And then at some point I stormed out of my office to shrew at Jason about his parenting skills (because clearly, I am WINNING at parenting). Sigh.

I have to wonder if there’s still a level of hormonal emotionality (is that a word? emotionalness?) involved in all of this. I know having a baby is hard, the first year of their life is basically a waking nightmare (sorry, but it’s true) – aside from all the cuteness, of course, but really – with the sleep deprivation and the being responsible for keeping them alive it’s just… hard… And on top of that I have a 2-year-old! But still. I’m either still hormonal or just losing my mind.

Anyway – then there are days like today. Fed up with the coaxing her to sleep on my bed while crossing my fingers that Simon won’t wake up I just said “to hell with it”, stuck her in her crib at nap time and told her to go to sleep. She pitched a tiny fit, threw all of her bedding out of the crib (which she does every night as well) and then fell asleep in 15 minutes. And, might I add, she is still sleeping an hour later. So for today, I win.

The alternative title to this post was All Of The Fun We Are Having At My House Right Now but that just seemed a little too melodramatic, even by my standards.

So yeah. I had my six-week postpartum followup thingie today. Which means this pregnancy is officially over. Sure, I guess you’re right, it was technically over once I pushed a human out my hoohaw but really, today sort of solidified it. I will never be pregnant again. Which, you know, whatever. Neither of my pregnancies was exactly a cakewalk (said the queen of understatement) but still. Not growing anymore babies in this ol’ uterus. And right, I still have a tiny baby and will be breastfeeding for at least another 10&1/2 months so there’s that. And I bet some of you are shaking your heads and muttering “famous last words” like I’m somehow either A) going to accidentally get knocked up again or B) change my mind and decide I want another baby and to that I say “awww, internet – you are so cute”. Because AS IF, PEOPLE. Did you read anything at all about my last pregnancy? Or the one before that? But anyway, if you need actual proof that it ain’t happenin…

My husband had a vasectomy today. Ain’t no thang. [side note: Except that it is because apparently he had some complications that while not exactly rare are not exactly common either and thus made the whole purported ease of the procedure (IN THE TIME IT TAKES YOU TO WATCH THIS VIDEO, YOU TOO COULD HAVE A NO-SCALPEL VASECTOMY) seem like a lie and now he has to keep icing his junk or it might swell up. Of course he did. Because apparently the entire Carter family are a bunch of circus freaks with this whole procreating business and we should JUST STOP ALREADY. Which we are. The End]. Anyhoo – we had talked about the vasectomy when I was still pregnant with Simon, yea, even before all of the drama ensued because we knew we were done. I mean, I had tiny slivers of thoughts that it would be super fun to have three kids (I grew up as one of four and it was (and still is) awesome to have that many siblings to fight with constantly be friends with) but yeah, please see my Blog Posts of Pregnancy Past about complication on top of complication on top of hospitalization on top of HOLY SHIT HOW DID YOUR BABY SURVIVE?! for the reasons why that desire has been totally and completely wiped out. But even though we had talked about it I was unsure how quickly my husband would actually follow through because you know, whatevs, you ain’t even allowed to have the intercourse until the six-week checkup and that’s like, FORREVURRR. But he must have been as traumatized as I was by The Great Pregnancy Drama of ’14 because he called his doctor for a referral visit like three weeks after I delivered and now, here we are. Me with my fully-recovered (but never to be the same again) hoohaw and my husband with a bag of frozen peas on his nuts. We sure know how to party! Woot! Four-day weekend! Please remember to have a moment of silence for his poor vasa deferentia on Memorial Day, folks. PS – I’m trying hard not to feel guilty that he is in pain and stuff. I mean, I pushed babies out my hoohaw. Drug-free! Plus THIS. I shouldn’t feel guilty. Right?

Anyway. No more Carter babies, y’all.

In other news: Simon is currently going through his fussy phase. You know, that three-month period where they cry for like, five hours every evening? Yeah that. And he does it while I’m working. And Jason is trying to bathe Louisa and get her in bed.

In other news: I’m changing my work schedule.

In other news: I drove like, four different places today. All by myself. And wore real clothes (rather than the stretched out maternity yoga-type pants that I normally live in) and makeup and errythang! And then I came home and worked a four-hour shift. And then my husband got a vasectomy. And then he drove to the airport to pick up his mom and stepdad (they live in Bullhead City, Arizona so our airport is the closest to them and they went on vacation all week and he dropped them off last week not realizing that they would get back on the day he had the snip and when I volunteered to go get them for him he was like NAW so don’t think it’s because I’m a horrible wife or anything because I’M NOT). And then I went to Walmart to get frozen peas and corn for his nuts and candy for our bellies but I forgot the frozen peas and corn (you guys, I am such a horrible wife) because I’m a fat girl and all I care about is da candies so then I had to go back out to the store, and I may or may not have been listening to The 80s at 8 on whatever the hell radio station and listening to Pat Benatar and White Snake really loud because that’s how I roll. By which I mean I AM SO OLD.